Chapter 1
Chapter 1
Before we start, there are a few things you should know about me. First up, I don’t date jocks. Ever. Which is a little bit of a problem. You see, in my job as Sponsorship Account Manager for the Hawks rugby team, I meet nothing but jocks. A “target-rich dating environment” is what one of my BFFs, Darcy, calls it. To me, dating a sports pro is about as appealing as having to follow a Great Dane around with a pooper scooper after a very large meal.
Actually, now that I think about it, the Great Dane job would be an improvement.
Secondly, I’ve agreed to a pact with my two best friends, Darcy and Sophie, to find my H.F.N. (Happy For Now, for those of you not obsessed with romance novels the way I am, and as a side note, you should be because romance novels are awesome). Secretly, between you and me, I don’t want to find my H.F.N. I want to find my Happily Ever After. My H.E.A. I want to find The One, the guy I’m meant to be with. Not that I’ve told my friends that. No way. They think I’m looking for guys to date, not to fall in love. But falling in love is what I dream of doing, and I won’t settle for anything but the real deal.
Which brings me to the final thing you need to know about me: I’m a bit of a romantic. Okay, I’m a lot of a romantic. I love the idea of being swept off my feet by a handsome man, of grand gestures, roses, and heart-shaped boxes of chocolates. I want the guy I’m head over heels in love with down on bended knee with a hopeful look in his eyes and a sparkling ring in his hand. Talk about swoon! That’s what I want. All of it. At the risk of sounding like a lyric in a rather famous Queen song, I want it all, and I want it now.
But you know what? The world isn’t like that. Well, not anymore anyway. Maybe it was back in the Bront? sisters time or when Jane Austen was penning her romantic tales or maybe when knights roamed the countryside, saving damsels from huge, scary dragons. Not that I want to be saved, of course, even though the idea of a burly and dashing knight rushing to my aid is kind of appealing.
No, Twenty-First Century New Zealand isn’t exactly packed to the gills with Mr. Darcys and Heathcliffs and handsome knights on white stallions. Quite the opposite, in fact.
My world is full of arrogant, self-interested, womanizing professional rugby players who wouldn’t know romance if it leapt up and slapped them in the face.
So, when a super cute guy starts to chat to me in the line at the supermarket after work one warm evening, the first thing I do is check that he’s not a rugby player or a jock of any description. Well, after checking there’s no ring on his finger. A girl can’t be too careful, you know, and he is holding a beautiful bouquet of flowers in his hands. It could be a bad sign.
“That’s kind of a weird question to ask a guy,” he says with his brows pulled in, making him look a little like a cute puppy. You know, in a totally manly, human way, of course.
“It’s my thing, I guess. I’m not against people playing sports or anything like that, because, hello? that would be weird, right?”
His lips lift into a smile. “Right,” he agrees. “That would be weird.”
“I’m Erin Andrews,” I say as I proffer my free hand, which is my left as I’m holding my basket in my right. He takes it, and we do an awkward shake.
“Pleased to meet you. I’m Chris Gower.”
“Nice name.” I drink him in. This guy is cute! He’s in good shape with a mop of sandy blond hair and hazel eyes, a few adorable kid-like freckles across his nose. He’s slim with broad shoulders and is much taller than me, but that’s hardly a big deal. Most guys are taller than me. Heck, most people are taller than me. “Small but perfectly formed,” Dad always says, although at school my nickname was “Tater Tot,” which I could not stand, for obvious reasons. These days, I prefer the label “non-tall,” and now that I’m a fully-grown woman, I praise the sweet Lord for the invention of high heels, which I totter around on all day long.
“The thing is, I know too many sports pros, and they’re not exactly my type,” I explain.
“I would have killed to go pro, but it never happened for me. I guess I wasn’t good enough,” the cute guy with the flowers replies.
We shuffle along the line.
“Well, I guess that means you pass the first test, then,” I say.
He gives a surprised laugh. “I thought this was a trip to the supermarket, not a test.”
“Oh, it’s not. Not at all,” I reply hurriedly. “I was only giving you my opinion. We’re just, you know, talking.” I shoot him what I hope is a thoroughly enchanting smile before I look down and pretend to concentrate on choosing which brand of breath mints I want to purchase. As I scan the options—who knew there were so many breath mints choose from?—I steal a quick glance in his direction and notice him watching me.
“Pick these,” Cute Flower Guy says as he reaches in front of me for some mints.
As he does so, I catch his scent; an intoxicating mixture of sandalwood and vanilla. I always think you can tell a lot about a guy by his scent. Not only whether he wears aftershave or has recently washed (because eww , not washing would be a straight up “no” for me) but what sort of man he is. Too much cologne and he’s bound to be a flirt and think rather a lot of himself. No cologne and he may as well be a boy. But get it right, with the right pheromones thrown into the mix, and you’ve got yourself a serious contender.
Cute Flower Guy holds out a packet of mints. “Here. Buy these. They’re the best.”
I take the mints and look up into his eyes. I can’t stand the brand he’s chosen—too strong and spicy for my delicate taste buds—but I drop them into my basket and murmur, “Thanks a lot.”
He holds my gaze, and I feel a surge of exhilaration. This guy might be a potential date! Sure, his taste in mints is less than stellar, but he’s cute and seems to be interested in me. Who knows? Maybe it’s finally my turn? Both my BFFs are totally loved up with their perfect matches, and I’ve been hoping, hoping to meet mine. After all, hyper-organized rule-follower Darcy and fun-loving dreamer Sophie both found love in unexpected places. Could the supermarket be mine?
“Who are the flowers for?” I ask and resist the urge to add, “Are they for your girlfriend?” because that would be w aaa y too obvious.
He looks down and bites his lip. “Oh, ah, someone died.”
I clap my hand over my mouth. Someone died? And here I am flirting with this guy? “Oh, I’m so sorry for your loss,” I say hastily as heat rises in my cheeks.
When he doesn’t reply, I add, “And I’m also sorry for talking to you about my policy on not dating sports pros…and for the mints, and for, well, everything, really.”
He shakes his head and smiles at me. “Don’t worry about it. It’s fine. She was my, ah, great aunt. Yeah, my great aunt. And anyway, you’re fun, and she was about three hundred years old. It did not come as a shock to anyone, believe me.”
Should I feel bad that I’m relieved the flowers aren’t for his girlfriend, even if they are for a dead relative? The jury is out, but I sure am relieved. “Were you close to your great aunt? I’m super close to mine.”
“I think the last time I visited her I was fourteen, which is half my life ago, really.”
“Oh, right.” I do a quick age calculation. Twenty-eight. A good age. Not too young so that all he wants in a girl is fun and not too old that he has serious relationship baggage yet. It’s a fine line.
“I’m really sorry—” I begin as he says, “How about we—”
“You go ahead,” I say and bite me lip, hoping I know what he’s about to say, despite the whole dead great aunt thing.
“Would you like to go out for a drink with someone who is definitely not a professional rugby player?” he answers, surprisingly playful for someone buying flowers for a funeral.
“I would love to.” I grin at him and add, “Only on account of the fact that you’re not a professional rugby player and you like strong-flavored mints. Nothing more.”
Going out for a drink may seem like a completely normal thing to do to get to know a guy. But there is one tiny problem here. You see, the No More Bad Dates Pact I agreed to with Darcy and Sophie has got some rules, rules that make sense, at least in theory. In practice? Well, right now, as I look at Chris smiling at me over his flowers, I wish there weren’t any rules at all. But we designed the pact to help each other find decent guys to date because all three of us were sick of dating a string of jerks, weirdos, and straight-up idiots. If neither pretty Sophie, with her blonde bob and quick wit, nor driven Darcy, with her gorgeous dark locks and legs for miles, could find good guys to date, what hope did I have? A dating pact with the girls I’ve been best friends with for almost half my life made perfect sense.
Darcy came up with the set of rules, and even we sanctioned them, despite the fact both Sophie and I wondered whether Darcy had missed her calling as a military leader. However draconian the rules are, I know I should be taking them seriously right now. After all, I’m the only single one left in our little trio.
I roll the list of rules around in my head. The Initial Contact happens first. That step is pretty self-explanatory and can only happen over coffee. Alcohol is not recommended because, let’s face it, decision making can be impaired when under the influence. I know. I’ve drunk dialed exes too many times to remember, and it never ends well.
The Initial Meeting is followed by the Vetting Process, in which the three of us subject the victim—sorry, the potential date —to a series of questions to determine whether he’s a good guy or not. If he passes, we get to go out on a date.
It’s girlfriends looking out for one another, a sisterhood amidst the wild dating jungle.
Chris leans in to me and says, “How about we go for a drink straight from here? No time like the present, right?”
As anticipation zings around me, I make a decision. I’m going to forget the no alcohol at an Initial Meeting. A girl doesn’t get this sort of opportunity every day. And anyway, I’m already pushing twenty-six, and this is the first time I’ve wanted to go out with a guy in, like, for ever . Seriously, I think Netflix hadn’t been invented the last time I dated. Okay, not that long ago (I mean, was there even a time before Netflix?), but you get the general picture. It was a long, long, long time ago. And anyway, I’m certain Darcy and Sophie will understand.
Either that or I won’t tell them.
I glance at Chris’s flowers and push his dead great aunt and the dating pact from my mind. “That would be perfect.”
“I hoped you’d say that.”
Once outside the supermarket, Chris walks me to my car, where I leave my groceries safely tucked away inside.
“There’s a bar down the street. We could go get a drink there, if that works for you?” he says.
“That sounds good to me.” I keep my voice calm, while inside I’m whooping and doing high kicks.
We take the short walk down to the bar. Conversation flows between us like we’ve known one another for years, not the mere minutes it really is. At the bar, Chris offers to buy me a drink, and I take a seat at a high table under a large TV screen. Of course, this is a sports bar with a replay of rugby being played by the Hawks above my head. Seriously, New Zealand is obsessed with rugby. We pretend we’re not, but we so are. And tonight, out for the first time with someone I’ve just met, I’d like to forget about the rugby team I work for and focus on other things, like the fact that I’m finally on a date with a guy I like.
A moment later, he arrives at the table, drinks in hand. “One glass of Pinot Grigio for you,” he says as he perches himself on the stool opposite me.
“Thank you so much.” I glance at his glass. It looks like scotch. Most guys my age drink beer, so it’s refreshing to meet someone who doesn’t follow the crowd. I lift my glass and say, “It’s great to meet you, Chris.”
His eyes are warm as he holds my gaze, and he pushes his sandy blond hair from his face as he smiles at me. “Likewise.” He lifts the glass to his lips and takes a sip. “I’ve, ah, never done this before.”
“Drunk scotch?” I reply with a wry grin before I take a sip of my own drink.
He laughs. “Met a girl at a supermarket and asked her out. Especially one who has a policy of not dating sports pros.”
“It’s a good policy, and one I’m sticking with.”
“I admire a woman with conviction.” He raises his eyes to the screen behind me. “This ad is hilarious.”
I turn to see a familiar advertisement with a group of puppies dressed in baseball caps with medallions around their necks “dancing” to hip hop music as they extoll the virtues of a brand of toilet tissue. “The one in the green vest is the cutest,” I remark.
“No way! The one with the eyebrow ring is the best.”
“How can you say that? That eyebrow ring is so not believable.”
“Why’s that?”
“For the simple reason that dogs don’t have eyebrows.”
His lips curve into a smile. “You’re a canine expert, are you? I suppose you’re going to tell me a lot of puppies have purple fur like the one in the green vest?”
“I’ll have you know I’ve met several puppies with that very same fur color, but not a single dog with an eyebrow ring on their non-existent eyebrow.”
His eyes sparkle as he holds my gaze. “Gorgeous and smart. I hit the jackpot at the market tonight.”
I blush at the compliment. “I’m not sure knowing dogs don’t have eyebrows should be regarded as ‘smart,’ exactly.”
Chris leans forward and says, “Well, you know more than me. What’s more, I’ve got a dog, and now I’m going to have to tell him that he doesn’t have eyebrows. I’m hoping it won’t come as too much of a shock to him.”
“What sort of dog do you have?”
“A Soft Coated Wheaten Terrier. His name is Bandit.”
“Bandit is a cool name. My cousin had one of those when I was a kid. So cute and pretty crazy.”
“Bandit is cute and crazy enough to wear an eyebrow ring in his nonexistent eyebrow.” He lifts his drink once more and throws it back. All of it, every last drop. He lets out an ah as he places the now empty glass on the table.
I blink at him in surprise—and concern. I know some people can really hold their liquor, and he is a lot bigger than me, but that amount of scotch would send me straight to La La Land.
“So, Erin. Tell me all about yourself. I already know you’re a dog expert and you don’t date jocks. What else?”
I tear my eyes from his empty glass and back up at him. “What do you want to know?”
“What makes you tick? What gets you out of bed in the morning?”
“That’s easy. My love of fashion and my alarm clock, which I hate with a passion. I’m not a morning person.”
“Oh, me neither. The early bird may catch the worm, but seriously, who wants to eat worms, anyway?”
I giggle. “Exactly.”
“So, fashion, huh?”
“Yup. I design and make a lot of my clothes, and one day I want to make it as a fashion designer.”
“That’s very cool. Not that I know anything about fashion. How come a girl like you is single?” He looks at me sideways and adds, “You are single, right?”
“Oh, yes. Of course I am.”
His smile stretches across his face. “That’s good to hear, although I don’t get why a pretty girl like you is still single.”
“Ah, well. Being single, huh?” I begin.
Man, I hate that question. Like, really hate that question. I get asked it by Dad, by my granny and great aunt, by pretty much anyone who’s nosey enough to ask. It’s like they’re implying that being single is some kind of embarrassing condition that needs ointment or something. Like a boil. And it’s not. It’s perfectly normal to be single. Particularly when you’re not interested in settling for just any old guy to avoid being alone.
“Is it too much of a cop-out to say I just haven’t met the right guy?” I reply.
“Not at all. I think I like you even more now that I’ve heard that.” His eyes are warm as he smiles across the (sticky, ugh ) table at me, and the team of high kickers inside my tummy do their thing and shout, “This guy is great!”
We continue to chat and flirt with one another until I’ve finished my glass of wine and Chris offers to buy us another drink. A moment later, he’s back with more Pinot Grigio and an even larger glass of scotch for himself.
As I eye his drink, I can no longer hold myself back. “You like scotch, huh?”
“Yeah, I do. My family’s Scottish, so I basically grew up on this stuff.”
An image of Chris as a baby drinking scotch from a bottle flashes before my eyes. “Not really, right?” I say with a light laugh.
“Nah. I’m kidding. But the Scots do know how to drink. Slàinte ,” he says, raising his glass. “That’s Gaelic for ‘cheers.’”
“Right. Got it. Slàinte, ” I repeat as I lift my glass of wine. I watch agog, as he swallows down the amber liquid, slapping his empty glass on the table once more.
“Did you have a bad day or something?” I blurt out before I can stop myself. It’s really no business of mine. I’ve only just met the guy.
“What?” he asks then realization dawns on his face. “Oh. Yeah, it’s been a crappy day. A crappy week, really.”
“Because of your great aunt?”
He looks at me blankly.
“The one who died?” I add hesitatingly.
“Oh, yeah, because of my great aunt. Right.”
Wow, he really wasn’t close to her.
“But generally, it was a bad week.” He reaches across the table and takes my hand in his. “That’s why I’m glad I met you over the bananas.”
I smile, my shoulders relaxing with relief. He’s had a bad week, that’s all. People often drink more when they’re stressed. Although my girlfriends and I tend to stress eat copious amounts of sugar instead, I get that. I work with arrogant, self-interested rugby pros after all. I know what stress is, believe me.
He presses his phone on the table, and his screen lights up. “Hey, I’ve got to go do a thing right now. Wanna come with me? It won’t take long, and then we can go grab a bite to eat.”
“A thing?” I question.
“Yeah. It’s already started, so I’d better go. But, you know, you could come. If you want.”
Although his scotch intake is sounding alarm bells in my head, I like this guy, and I don’t want this first date—okay, “Initial Meeting”—to end just yet. “That sounds fun.”
“I should probably tell you it’s a wake for, you know, my great aunt.”
“Oh.” Oh, no. I pull a face. “Not fun then.”
“It’ll be fine. I’ll deliver these”—he picks up the flowers from the table and waves them in the air—“say hello to some people, and then we can go. It’ll take ten minutes tops.”
Going to a wake for the great aunt of a guy I met less than an hour ago seems a little off. A lot off. “Are you sure?” I question. “I didn’t know her. It feels kinda weird to me.”
He hops off his stool and offers me his hand. “I am totally sure. Having you there will really help take my mind off it all.”
“I thought you said you hadn’t seen her since you were fourteen.”
“Oh, yeah. Take my mind off death in general, that’s what I mean.” He shudders. “Death. It sucks.”
How eloquent.
“Okay,” I reply, very possibly against my better judgment, and we walk hand-in-hand out of the bar and down the street a block to a church hall. I can hear people talking in low, respectful voices inside before Chris pushes through the doors. We enter a brightly lit room, packed full of people dressed in black, all with grim looks on their faces. Which is appropriate, of course, because this is a wake for a dead person.
I glance down at my yellow summery dress and instantly feel like a lone flower in the gloom. Don’t get me wrong, I adore my dress. I made it myself, like I do with most of my clothes. It’s got a sweetheart neckline and puff cap sleeves, and the A-line shape is subtly sexy, falling just on the knee. Being non-tall, finding cute and sexy clothes can be a real challenge. My mum taught me to sew, and designing clothes became my passion from a young age. If I had been brave enough to follow my dreams instead of getting a sensible (boring) business degree which led to a sensible (boring) job to make my dad proud, I would be a fashion designer.
Maybe someday I’ll be brave enough to follow that dream.
A stiff-looking middle-aged woman with bobbed hair and a gaunt face approaches us. “Chris. You’re here,” she says and then slides her eyes over me and adds, “and you brought a date.” There’s more than a note of distaste in her voice.
“Yeah, ah, this is Erin,” Chris says with a slur before he turns and flings the flowers unceremoniously onto a nearby table.
My guess is all that scotch has now hit his bloodstream.
“Erin,” Chris continues, “meet my mum.”
I gawk at the woman. This is his mother ? What a way to meet my potential future mother-in-law! At her aunt’s funeral with her half-drunk son.
“Hello, Mrs.—” I stop abruptly. What is Chris’s last name again? It starts with a G I think. Govenor? Gavin? Or was it a J ? I rack my brain, but I come up with nothing. In the end, all I do is repeat, “Hello,” in as grave a tone as I can muster, hoping to convey my sense of loss for her as well as respect for the dead (which is a lot to load onto one word, really).
Mrs. Whatever-Her-Last-Name-Is blinks at me a couple of times before she gives me a brief nod and turns back to Chris.
“Erin’s really great,” Chris begins, totally not reading his mum’s mood. “We met at the supermarket tonight, and I knew she was single because she had bananas in her basket. Did you know that’s a thing, Mum? That’s a thing, right, Erin? The banana thing?” His speech is really slurred now.
“I, ah, yes, I think it is,” I reply. Chris is right. I had heard somewhere that having bananas in your basket at the supermarket on a certain night of the week indicates singledom, but tonight I was buying bananas because I like bananas. Come to think of it, I wonder what all the married and coupled-up banana lovers do? Get hit on when all they’re trying to do is buy their favorite fresh produce? What a nightmare.
“Well, whether it is or it isn’t, it might have been best to leave your new friend at the supermarket, Christopher.” Mrs. Whatever-Her-Last-Name-Is gives Chris a meaningful look before she turns to me and says, “He’s grieving, you understand. He’s not quite himself.”
“Yes, of course,” I reply, feeling about the size of a Lilliputian. Why did I let Chris bring me here? I knew it wouldn’t be appropriate to go on a date to a wake. “He must have loved his great aunt very much. Your great aunt. No, that’s not right. Your aunt. Yes, that’s it.”
She crinkles her brow. “I’m sorry?”
I swallow, feeling increasingly awkward. “Chris told me he and the…deceased weren’t close, but now I suspect he was putting on a brave face. The loss of anyone in one’s family is hard,” I say, trying my best to sound philosophical and wise, “even if it is for a great aunt one has not seen for some time.” Pleased with my assessment, I tilt my head and smile sympathetically at her.
She studies me for a few seconds before she takes me by the elbow and walks me away from Chris. “My dear, I don’t know why he told you that his great aunt is dead. She is, but that’s beside the point.”
“Right,” I say in the same sympathetic tone, not following in the slightest.
She lowers her voice and says, “It’s his girlfriend.”
My disappointment stings. I knew Chris being single was too good to be true! “He has a girlfriend?”
She presses her thin lips together and shakes her head. “Had. He had a girlfriend. She died.”
I place my hand over my chest. “Oh, but that’s awful!”
“Yes, yes, it is.”
I glance at Chris. He’s got his head bowed now, looking thoroughly dejected. “When did she, you know, pass?”
“Last week.”
My eyes almost pop out of my head in shock. “Last week? Oh, no. Poor Chris! No wonder he drank his body weight in scotch.”
She purses her lips. “Indeed. And bringing you here to his girlfriend’s wake is in very poor taste, don’t you think?”
Wait, what?!
I blink at her creased, tight face. “This is his girlfriend’s wake?”
She raises her eyebrows. “Does your IQ match your EQ? Yes, Erin, this is Chris’s girlfriend’s wake.”
My jaw dropping to the floor, I turn to look at Chris. He’s now rummaging around in his pocket for something, completely oblivious to my discovery. In shock, my eyes glide past him and land on a poster-sized picture of a young woman on a beach, smiling out at the camera, the wind in her hair. The name Caitlin Forrester and the dates she lived tell me all I need to know.
Oh, no.
“I’m so, so sorry, Mrs.—” I still have no recollection of Chris’s last name, but I know I need to press on to make this right. Or as right as I can when I’ve met a guy, had a drink with him, and he’s invited me to his dead girlfriend’s wake. I start again. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea. Really, I didn’t. Chris told me this was his great aunt’s wake, Mrs.…Chris’s mum.”
She shoots me a puzzled look. “Christopher has had a very hard time of it lately,” she explains, and I nod along. “I’m sure you’ll understand that I need you to leave.”
“Leave. Yes. Of course. That’s what I’ll do.” I begin to back away. “Right now, in fact.” I glance quickly at Chris, but he’s so preoccupied with trying to appear normal, he seems completely oblivious to my presence.
I back right away until I bump up against something. I turn in alarm to see I’ve inadvertently backed into a large arrangement of flowers. I manage to catch it before it topples over . Phew! That was close.
As I check that the flowers are stable, I hear the familiar tones of an Adele song coming from somewhere nearby. She sings out the title of the track, saying hello to someone who’s on the other side of something. And then it repeats, the same words again. And again.
Chris and his mum and a bunch of people nearby turn and gawk at me.
For a moment, I’m confused. Why are they all looking at me? I know I’m not meant to be here, but I’m not singing the wildly inappropriate song.
And then, with a sickening realization, I work out where the sound is coming from. My purse. My phone is ringing in my purse. I’m the one with the song saying hello from the other side to a bunch of people at a wake.
In a flood of mortification, I remember Darcy and I had been messing around with the ringtones on our phones last night, and she’d changed mine to this song. She laughed when she said she was calling me from the other side of the room to go get her another soda.
Now, standing at Caitlin Forrester’s wake, the words take on a whole new meaning.
“Erin?” Chris says, his face aghast. He looks like he’s seen a ghost—or at least heard one.
I put my hands up in the air. “Oh, no. No, I don’t mean Caitlin. She’s not calling from the other side, or from anywhere, because, you know—” What am I going to say, because she’s dead? No, I can’t! That would be horrible, just like this date. Horrible, horrible, horrible! I swallow and try again. “It’s just my ring tone. That’s all it is. My roommate and I changed it last night,” I explain in a rush. “It’s quite funny, really, when you think about it. Don’t you…think…?” I trail off, as people continue to stare at me and my internal voice yells, Stop, Erin. Just Stop!
I have so got to get out of here.
As if I need a final straw—because I’ve got to tell you, right now my straw stack has reached the freaking ceiling—I back away from the gawking crowd right into that darn flower arrangement again, the one I’d only just managed to save from toppling over. This time though, there’s no saving it, and it goes crashing to the floor to a collective gasp from the people watching. Which, by now, is pretty much everyone in the room.
“Sorry, sorry,” I mutter. I catch the look of utter bewilderment on Chris’s Mum’s face. And then, I turn and run, letting the heavy door bang against the wall in my haste to get out of there.
As I make it out onto the street, I run from the mortification, I run from the sadness in the room, and I run from the world’s most inappropriate funeral song. But most of all, I run from the chance of something new with someone I thought was a normal, straightforward guy. Today will go down in history as the new champion in my ever increasing catalogue of utterly horrible, horrible dates.